


Love is a Tender Bite

by SouthernBird



Category: Darkstalkers (Video Games), Rockman X | Mega Man X, Rockman | Mega Man - All Media Types
Genre: And he mentally rambles too much, Androids, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Luckily there is a Morrigan, Might be OOC, No Beta Reader because I will die alone on this ship, Robophobia?, Romance, Some Alcohol Use, Succubi & Incubi, X thinks too much, i don't care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22502005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: “You’re too punctual, dear,” comes the airy murmur along the side of his helmet, and damn it all, what he would give to throw subroutines and obligations out the window just to let her take his hand to drag him into every rugged corner of the city to teach him all the fun found in shadows and red lights. Still, he barely twitches, just curves his lips in an easy smile as he regards the face that has appeared before his.“Good evening, Morri.”
Relationships: Morrigan Aensland/Mega Man X
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Love is a Tender Bite

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is serious. No, I do not care; I just wanted this out of my system because I will die with this ship. 
> 
> I blame Capcom for everything.

Daylight comes with a certain chaotic glow that the city never seems to ever bore of the daily routines of footsteps pounding the sidewalks, of the yells, the laughter, and the cries that echo between the alleyways between the giant silhouettes of skyscrapers. Daylight thrives, pulsates like golden waves that course in twists and turns throughout the mundane, yet curls into the wayward passages of the unpredictable affairs. Perhaps the coffee shop will change the menu, perhaps the city will change their welcome banners from a glistening blue to a gentle yellow, all changes that, much like all the other strangeness of life, is inevitable.

But, daylight is for hunters fresh from training, circuits bright on the little taste of justice and righteousness that could only be deemed as hopelessly hopeful by war-scarred veterans. Daylight, beautifully ordained daylight, is for those without power thrumming in the core to taunt beings thought to only exist between the swirls of fading ink and dust of crumbling paper.

The neon signs of the bar flicker above his head as the traffic skids down from his place in the alleyway, momentum of the cars breezing humid summer air across his form.

A small check of his internal clock— she is late. No, an act not too out of place, but his scouting routines are precious trickles of time that he lets her steal with little crooks of her fingers; after all, he is helpless, his reluctance and his composure cracking finely beneath the heel of her designer boots. Yet, he dares not retort, her tone so whiskey smooth with sultry smoke that he realizes why human men of days past fought their wars and kneeled eagerly to their wives.

And as though he were thinking of a devil itself, a chill blows along the nape of his neck, and that helplessness nearly buckles his knees with the subtle flap of a thousand wings.

“You’re too punctual, dear,” comes the airy murmur along the side of his helmet, and damn it all, what he would give to throw subroutines and obligations out the window just to let her take his hand to drag him into every rugged corner of the city to teach him all the fun found in shadows and red lights. Still, he barely twitches, just curves his lips in an easy smile as he regards the face that has appeared before his.

“Good evening, Morri,” X regards politely as her coy smirk turns down right supple while the corners of her bright eyes shift into some semblance of adoring. The gaze never fails to flutter his core, never lets up the pounding of oil that overtakes every joint of his body because for all her demure vivaciousness, it’s how she shows her feelings that overwhelms the hunter.

Yet, she chuckles, the sound more like a victory call than just her finding humor in his response as her fingertips find his jaw, caressing down to his chin to tip his head up closer to her. For a brief lapse, the android’s mind whirls, gears and synapses all rushing double-time over scant inches that separated their lips while he pauses and deciphers if religion is found in the hands of man or along the lips of this woman.

Then, the instance drifts apart as Morrigan slips away with a chuckle that tickles upon his artificial heartstrings. As she steps down the alleyway, he wonders how he would presume her if he were comprised of flesh and sinew rather that metal and wiring; would he simply admire her figure, curvaceous with sinuous intent to drag the lustful gaze towards her? Would he admire her personality, a greedy playful core that loves a good fresh competition of cat and mouse?

X, more or less, just relishes in the gratitude that he can straggle behind her, finding that his form while not something that would normally catch her eye— her words, whispered against his helmet between the doors of rowdy bars and bass-dropping clubs when he scrambled towards her, needing her comfort, needing something other than _normalcy—_ has done so all the same.

Yet, how could he do so when she’s the epitome of a vast cityscape, when she’s the culmination of urban luxury that swings with the tempo beat of car horns and vocal roar of a populous that claws for impulses galore when all he wants is something cleaner, something kinder?

“You’re falling behind, dearie,” is a taunt of a call that echoes in his own core while fingertips brush down for his palm then tenderly slide further to twine their fingers in a lover’s hold that whisks away all thoughts of peace and of purpose. Perhaps, in the fragment of life stolen with Morrigan, he could let himself be selfish, be more tepid with his wants rather that fill the void of anxiety that gnaws at the nape of his neck before he breaks.

He likes her, well, more than likes, infinitely more, and her wanderlust grin makes him smile ever more while she tugs him down into the city life far off his routine path. Strangely, the freedom is crisp on his tongue and his receptors feel more responsive, more eager to feed on the rushing neon lights and touching shoulders. He would certainly be a sight to behold, but nightlife holds one secret to its breast; what happened never happened.

Invigorated, X steps closer to her gait, his shorter stature remedied by the fluid turn of his joints while Morrigan laughs and winds him through a crowd club goers that are far more intoxicated than they should be at this hour. A sparse glance shows to him their jubilee and liveliness, and when he allows himself an interlude of reflection at the greatness of human emotion, his fingers squeeze hers tighter.

She’s _warm_ , but she always is, warm and glowing in a sultry kind of way that tantalizes to analyze and to make him ponder too grandly whilst he should just focus on her smirk as she guides towards her favorite part of the city that houses a bar that fits perfectly for their situation.

The hunter knows the establishment too well after the first days of the budding— something— immersing the spaces between them, but to say it is his own fare is a farce as obvious as the sun rising at daybreak. The thumping nightlife of their first excursions together had included a variety of barely-lit clubs where eyes would idly sidle on X who not only was trying to blend in but also deter the masses from recognizing him in their crosshairs. A feat, shockingly enough in this day and age, yet the idea that something _non-human_ had arrived to slide into a mess of tight bodies swaying and grinding to the bass drops that were predictably human only was enough for X to kindly— warily— excuse himself to wait outside for his partner.

He is fairly certain it was some cock and bull presumption on monitoring the perimeter for any suspicious going ons, but what he still tells himself in the corners of the rooms of headquarters when the moments are sufferably easy to let his thoughts wander back that there was nary a sneer or smirk on her lips when he turned away.

(He is aware that his own words are a lie.)

Even then, he could not fathom the immensity of what happened when he did step into the street, but when music and the lights had cut out all too terrible and too abrupt that when Morrigan stepped out of the doors with a finesse that was near dreadful, X had a horrible, sinking motion of paltry death from the tense silence.

Then, she grinned, all sharp teeth and personal appeasement before taking his chin to kiss his cheek.

“ _In your honor, I cut their little party short tonight… Now, come along then._ ”

“Are we having the usual tonight?” is how he gains her attention first, truly curious where their nightly wandering would take them before the wee hours of mourning would come and diminish the dream. After all, X has been told to ‘live a little’ many times previously by random comrades, his best friend, hell, even by his own commander.

Clicks of her heels blend into a medley with the thriving tempo of urban fare yet she is silent for a moment. Then two, three moments pass before she regards with a glance of confidence that has a sheen of fragility.

“Actually, I am whisking you away to my little nest above all this noisy, noisy nightlife! A little blessed quiet would do us a bit of benefit… if that’s all right.”

It takes just a smirk and a wink from her for X to outright glitch for no other reason other than trying to concur as to why it would not be all right. Morrigan’s place, no, a nest, what a strange way to put it… would be her home, a hideaway from bustling and hustling that drives between the alleyways and street signs. Comfort is found in hearth and home, but there is an air of tension that he notes when her fingers tighten around his hand and he just hopes that he has not made presumptions of nothing when there is something there.

An inhale— while unnecessary for his anatomy— still feels natural to steady his voice as his timber soothes over the syllables that are dancing with the feelings that flutter in his chest, “wherever you go, I will follow; that is my directive when I am with you.”

Heels nearly skids in a half trip, a click then a grind that perks up some semblance of him setting her off kilter, but the fluidity of her own save gives instead a hitching thought of just imagining things.

Still, Morrigan seems stunned for a moment, speechless for the first time since they began these little excursions as her tongue is a never-ending lashing of wit and attitude no matter whatever comes batting her way and X never knew she could be put into such a muted state. Like her footing, her recovery time is impeccably fast, same as his on a full charge, and her mirthful gaze catalyzes and simmers into something far warmer.

The hunter is hit with a sudden revelation that he wants to run away with her, wants to find her eyes so smolderingly gentle in the whisking night, wants to tuck her away in a secret place only he knows, key and lock all at his hand— and he begs someone ethereal and unseeing that the feelings are reciprocated to every inch of extent as his.

He longs to be alone with her, and it truly makes no sense, this sensation that tingles as though his core is replaced with a heart of sinew and of vein to beat steady, steady for her, all simmering rhythms and tempos.

“Directive, you say— it really is all about duty for you?” Morrigan teases with an airy chuckle, but X, too keen on observation from not only the field of battle but also his own indulgences in the human factor, instantly picks up the tiniest wavers waltzing in her tone. Surely, a woman of her stature and her confidence would not fret over the small instances of an android’s programming but— he is far more complex than that, is he not?

Now, he is at pause, worry brimming in his throat while he weighs left and right that prospect of each response before he just sighs, wistful and fluttering. The hunter could spend time infinitesimal in a worrisome mental drag, but why should he? The night is tepid, her smile is moonlit, and he is an utter fool drowning in the depths of something far more profound than a soldier’s simple duty.

“If I told you yes, I suppose you would determine that I am lying. Is that safe to surmise?”

“Safer than safe; you are a horrible liar, but cute when you try.”

The hunter glows, cheeks round and lips tight while she teeters and keeps his hand evermore in her own.

Dancing lights drunkenly float about their path, bowing and ebbing in sluggish tempo with their steps while in blessed silence. The city, however, echoes with life, pounding and beating into slow rolls then gyrating thuds even as a luxurious high rise comes into view. The skyscraper, luxury apartments and penthouses placed perfectly in the heart of the metropolis, has been a sight X has beholden only during certain routines that would prompt his presence necessary. To see the building alight with no need to hurry or no need to just admire in passing is a wondrous, curious thing.

Of course, he is not sure what he expected. Her accessories, her clothes; Morrigan is hardly a woman that deals in nothing short of haute couture, so why should he expert her living quarters to be drab and cheap?

“Home sweet home, hm?” And it is a swipe of a keycard, the hiss of elevator doors coupled with her giggling at his incredulous glance before the door to her penthouse whirs open and there is already the cityscape laid out before them as though they have been cradled in the clouds to witness such splendor.

X is unsure when his palms touch the glass, and somehow, in spite of the upper levels headquarters provides, this is so much _more_ , beholding him to remark upon the glory of the epicenter of quiet parks and posh boutiques while civilians, human and reploid alike, laze about the sidewalks without a care in the world. Tranquil is all he can fathom as he watches life go on while he peers from so far up, something that he craves in the vacant corners of corridors that lead to simulation room and control centers when his core peddles fast towards alarms screeching in his ears. The people converse, walk, all without cares unfathomable.

All pretty thoughts to haunt him for this is what he fights for, what he burdens upon his shoulders, what he longs for even though when he is alone, it is only a matter of time before that festering ghoul of doubt scratches into his heart to howl into the hollows—.

“Did you already forget about little old me?”

Arms slip slow around his middle as wings unfurl to cradle around his frame, and Morrigan manages to steal him away from the depths of his own self-induced misery once more.

Sinuously, she purrs into his aural sensors before her chin settles on the arc of his shoulder as if prompting all his attention to solely be hers. His gaze finds hers, ever so worrisome emeralds losing to playfully effervescent sapphires— X concedes and risks the ambiance to indulge in the desire of personal affection with a tilt of his head so their foreheads meet.

It is nice, organic even, how her sweet sigh sweeps him into some hazy imaginary life where the world will not drag his chainlink back to its bidding. His purpose feels complete right there and then, entirely obstructed by her palms that press whole against his torso.

“I doubt I have the capability to forget you.”

Admitting the truth to himself is one thing; admitting the truth to her nearly jerks X from his cloudy reverie in a fit of sharp anxiety. Morrigan, to her credit, just chuckles before leaning in closer, a breath of distance between them while her eyes gleam with the radiance of city lights. The hunter wonders if she is pondering something witty or flirtatious, but instead she soothes him with a sweep of a hand over his hip and a low whisper of a near confession along his lips.

Then, as quickly as she came, Morrigan saunters away, hips lissomely swaying as she heads to a liquor cabinet where she shifts around glasses and bottles until her little ‘ah-ha’ of victory produces an opulent decanter of honeyed dambruie. A few delicate clinks here and there, then she is pouring herself a drink while coyly glancing towards him over her shoulder, “do you fare some spirits?”

“Ah…” X replies with a strange hesitation that coils in at the concave of his throat, lingers there before slithering down to the pit of his torso— alcohol is no stranger to him, not since having met this one— yet in spite of the combustion qualities, he is not honestly sure if it is worth the indulgence. So, he answers in some way to prompt her back towards the windows sooner, “no, but thank you.”

A click of a fine tongue and a well-meaning roll of her eyes are coupled with her steps back, and he must admit, he is pleased when she is near him once more.

Dependency is beginning to overtake his reactions and his thoughts. Perhaps he needs a defragmentation or a scan, something that would set together his data in a way that would keep him from being so selfish— and yet, X is perfectly content to feel his core warm over as she abides him.

“Not even a sip? You seem to like wine just fine…”

“I—,” but he can never finish as fingertips along his cheek only to lazily caress down to his chin, a crooked finger catching him there to tilt his head up to her glory. Yes, he thinks, how _glorious_ she is, nightly seductress with a glimmer of something that reflects the state of awe he finds himself. Enthralled, the hunter becomes a lonesome prey in the sight of a far better predator— and she beguiles him with an easy grin once it dawns on her in silver luminance.

The lip of the glass lays along the curve of his bottom pout, a whiskey stained promise proposed to him as her gaze gleams delightedly at the awe that he submits. Then, _drink,_ Morrigan commands, voice sultry and soothing as a mere reward while tilting the glass up. 

Facets of calculated reflexes collide before dissipating in spasming speckles of electric dust, leaving his stiff and unsure. He is entranced, still ever a deer in the eye of a hunter’s bow, but surely his processors would function and spark back into proper usage in some means to save his own self awareness. 

X opts for the obvious once the thrumming of his body settles, so he partakes in an unhurried sip of the dambruie and finds the taste is heady and sharp, complex along his artificial buds. Honestly, a part of him does not care for it, but overall it is a smooth experience with secondary benefits…

Of which, a coo greets his ears and Morrigan grins all fangs and lasciviousness, “good boy.”

A shudder down his spine, awkward since metal should not quake under such praise conduced from something as ordinary as attempting something as novel as alcohol, but the reaction happens and she is even more enamored with her control.

“I don’t mind pouring your own…”

Shaking his head— because, how dare she worry about such—, X steps closer, chewing on his bottom lip while denying her gnarls in his circuits and hangs low and burdensome, “not necessary.”

Thoughtful, Morrigan sucks her teeth, swirling the brew before taking a calculated swallow. Her eyes are slow cut to him, but peer up and down his frame in vampish grandeur. If he were to lie to himself, the android might would assume her thoughts wrap around his presence, tempted with certainty that she cannot look away.

The scrutiny hardly bothers him; commanders and politicians alike have walked to and fro from headquarters in some fashion have always seemed to esteem from his smaller stature that his occupation far exceeds his abilities. In a niche of pride, X hopes he has pushed out the naysayers of his intentions, but Morrigan is hardly some human counsel inquiring upon a million and one problems as though to demand solutions dragged out of his very core. No, it is quite the opposite as she is far more _dangerous._

Fingertips again brush along his cheek, and this is an area of human social contact he has only seen in vintage human dramas, all pretty thoughts and sweet nothings that, in his mind, she may chase for her own amusement. The idea is abhorrent, that he takes her cosseting and her dulcet tones and harbors them in piers of his artificial soul when instead he is truly some plaything for her to gain her whims from.

Fretting, though, the doubt scratches along the nape of his neck, makes him overthink, over-agonize, over-worry that he is a doll for her to throw right down when she is done—.

“Might I kiss you?”

The city goes silent and a buzzing hum echoes through his sensors. The world pulsates, then grows cold and hot too fast and too slow all at once and there is a twitch from a fritz that had the potential to short-circuit his memory boards. Eyes doe-wide and naive, the permission that she is asking for is brilliantly encompassing his entire being. There are words, syllables, all formations that would result in a myriad of replies that he could flourish, but all culminate in a singular, succinct answer.

_Yes._

Yes, she might, and yes, she could, so the android, in all his lack of experience of these matters, hopes the longing sigh that slips through parted lips right as she thumbs along his bottom lip is permission enough. Yet, how would it feel? How would he perceive all of it? Perhaps, just perhaps, it would be in the ways those wise old poems envision a happy little death that could be found in a kiss chaste and sweet.

Patience is her virtue then, a stunning feat as he has seen how his partner reacts when such virtue wears thin, seemingly gossamer-like when the crowds are much too loud and the drinks do not arrive as fast as desired. Really, there is a charm that lofts through the air when she huffs, her arms crossed and shoulders taut while her heel taps impatient tunes on the floor because she is far, far, _far_ too sober as nightfall could wane into sunrise too soon for her liking.

Technicolor visions of maybe memories and could-bes fade, and it is no longer a matter of then; for now, he loosens the proverbial knot in his throat to speak plainly an affirmation that he can only half get out much to his chagrin. His half-attempt is not in vain as the shadows stir like dust motes in a golden noontime, and her lips adjoin his too lightly.

As feather light as it was laved upon him, it ceases just as soft, and that something so chaste could sink into every crevice of this damned body made by man erupts awe in eyes he allows to close then open just to regard her in her full beauty.

"Not bad?" Morrigan teases, albeit short of any poison that would rock the waves that might would crash against the shoreline of his composure. No, she is saccharine corpulence, smile divine and intoxicating, a seraph in any other name if not for the dark structure of her spiny wings.

For or so long, X surmised that a queen of the night only hungered for lust sated. Instead, her smile is as timid as a lamb— a stunningly radiant scene for someone that has cut him down with a cold, deadly glare and professed herself to be a demon— _a succubus, you daft lad—_ between the concrete giants that loomed over their heads. A threat, perhaps, to push him away when their lives were beginning to twist the ties that would align their fates and their nights in some bliss known as companionship.

Once, he pondered if she meant it all save him, to keep him caught in depravity of war with no clandestine sanctuary found in the arms of a woman that would had every skill and talent to _kill_ him. But, there he is, the First, the android of wisdom unbound yet war bound, having clawed against the helms of a universe he is chained to struggle for some comfort to be found on this earth.

“Nothing you do is bad." A pause, enlightenment smacking his voice deadpan, “… towards me at the very least." 

Her laugh is as clear as a graveyard bell tolling in march with a funeral promenade, “aw, you’re still bitter about my patrons.”

Mouth wound terse, X can only shake his head, “I have already proposed obtaining you employment in… safer areas.”

Morrigan, bless her, leans right into his personal bubble to kiss daintily at his cheek. She is giggling all the while, hands leaving their loving hold of his jaw to press along his hips, “and where is the fun in being a phone girl? Besides, I promise— I only take money from the bad guys.”

“‘Bad’ is relative…” but her wooing black market oligarchs and stealing from multitudes of sordid accounts blind, all with sign of a pen and a wink of her eye all on their seduced consent, benefits the police force of their city which trickles down into less nuances for the hunters… 

_And from whatever seat he has perched himself, there is forever a frown towards her every time she hints at her most recent of victories. It feels as though this woman demon wants him to shout in jubilee her accomplishments, but there is black tar on his tongue that prevents any such congratulations. Is_ **_he_ ** _not enough? Is this some game that where his pieces are gathered in a pile on her side and she is ever the victor?_

_Then, always so happily to oblige along the crease of his mouth, she soothes over his cheek with a kiss dipped in honeysuckle while murmuring assurances that nothing, absolutely not one bit, of those ‘transactions’ involved physical intimacy._

_“I am far too old for that— and as if they deserve it!” Morrigan has tiffed out more than once when the he feels the need to press for more information, feels a desire permeate from his very steel bones to know that he is enough, “don’t worry, birdie… you’ll feed me just fine.”_

“… Does this mean that I am within discretion to ask for another kiss?”

“Oh, biride…”

Space twirls in yellow glow and red light, her lips on his for a kiss tinged with something headier, tasting far more coy and far more arousing than anything that has laid upon his tongue prior. Morrigan is nothing short of inebriating, and he drinks as though he will sure die, much, much too eager to live for whatever _more_ could be. 

Perhaps that is what draws him in closer, all with his eager presses, the world outside and in blurs while his moth wings flutter closer to her flame, and soon it is all navy blues and royal plums until he can revel in the softness of a bed along the dip of his knees, bare of his embellishments. Silk sheets rustle and tangle about them, and Morrigan is there, beauty dark and voluptuous, holding him like he is _breakable._

He wonders if this is natural, if instead of her leading, he should instead lead— yet perhaps more than anything, he should cascade upon her the same affections her views on the antique holograms that enrapture his false heart. Rather than swim in the sight of her, rather than whimper for each touch and each glance out of something akin to a craving, he should align his palms along the altar of her hips, should grace his fingers between the softness of her inner thighs…

“Talk to me… tell me what you _feel_.”

“… I feel worried. I feel as though I could hurt you. I feel as though I am not brave enough to… proceed. We possibly are… incompatible.”

The lines of her hands press along the curve of his jaw before her fingers trail his jaw as though she were instead charting the plains and valleys of his face rather than guide his eyes to gaze into her. Their sights catch then, a spark of something that should not be possible creating static cling in his soul, and he just wants to press his lips along hers and feel something vibrant.

When he does, he does not taste anything murky or heady and she does not bear poison along his tongue. Deadly nightshade, alluring aconitium, any flower would surely ashen at her glory while he chances his palms finding purchase along her neck.

“Birdie,” comes her husky murmur against his mouth, but even her chiding tease cannot ease her back from their kisses until she finally gives in to her thoughts, “I know you are no coward, and there is nothing to fear…”

As though validated for some strange fixture, his core thrums, his own mental space drowning at the prospect of what she means. For once, he could rest, settle into the inches of space that time would allow him to thrive, to spread himself into some other being of peace that could touch, yet not bruise.

He wants to be delicate as that is for the best, but should he treat love as a battle, a war call that coldly creeps through the fogs of fields of cannon fire rather than something smoldering and safe?

As if to answer him, hands lay over his own, an anchor in the storm as Morrigan draws him back to her, sails and all, “you’re thinking too much again.”

An inhale, but his retort is licked from his bottom lip with her cheeky little smirk. 

“Just let blind faith lead you…”

He yields, rewarded with a wink and a slow dance of her far-too-right dress is unzipped and the leather drapes towards her perfect waist. His eyes are caught in her gaze, moonlit blues that bewitch him into pause before his curiosity guides his sight down to admire bare skin. Morrigan is blessedly quiescent during his humble assessment, permitting him to learn what he may want too terribly much that the wisdom of language falters.

Though language may fail him, X recalls cradling the poems and ballads that man has written over the beauty of the female. Her supple skin, her striking curves, her soft breasts that hang and offer themselves to the palms of a lover— hell, he almost likens her breasts— _her body—_ to a pair of harvest moons, hanging pale and low and blinding along a dark autumn night.

She is simply a vision, seductive and teasing all at once, but in spite of how breathtakingly subliminal she may be, a queen of the night or not, when X gazes back up to find her striking face, he’s more pleased to see her expression soft and inviting than just having her baring all before him.

After all, sex means nothing to him; physical intimacy means nothing to him for there is nothing to be gained but a momentary freedom that can be so fleeting and so chilling. If her desires surround it, necessitate it, so be it, but what kills him in the sweetest of ways is how that smile draws his core into a tight, buzzing ball of elated warmth.

Something dances endearingly in her eyes, and he can only whisper in hushed hope while his moth wings are drawn to her flame.

“Then lead me,” X breathes, relinquishing his control, divesting himself of the authority that he has carried like stones upon his shoulders only to hand her his burdens and his inhibitions, “and I’ll go blindly.”

A caress of fingertips draw soft, treacly circles over his cheek before a palm cups his jaw, and her smile crystalizes into an extravagant grin, beaming so that she can hardly believe what has been offered so entirely. From his sides he barely detects the movement of her wings wrapping around him before he is entirely overwhelmed by her, mouths locked in some slow implication of the lovemaking that she wants for them both.

For a time when the succubus has him pinned, he supposes her pace and her touches would heighten into a beast of roughness and he would be her willing victim. No, though, Morrigan never hurries, never once presses too soon before he is accurately assuming what her next move would be, and he is ever grateful with her name panting from his lips.

In the throes, X drowns in her, closing off the rest of the world and the rest of his questions to steal away into the promise that is found in her bed. He falls, and falls, and falls further back, caught only by the down pillows and silk sheets while letting his circuits glow alight with lavender, his sinews golden.

She takes him until the stars and city lights wane and the sun slowly paints along the skyline a husky peachy lilac, drawing out every sweet nothing that makes her praise him, singes his wayward thoughts to only truths of her, and she is all that he knows until his optics white out from the short circuit.

-

Birdsong and motor whirs greet him at noontime, sunshine too bright for his optics and morning too far gone to care for any recalibration. His eyes screw back shut after one attempt, and he is content with the hazy orange that blinds him.

There is a lonely beep in his ear, and X barely shifts while his programming kicks in to register the call over his internal radio. Fortunately, the tone is casual, so no emergency to drag him from the web of the bed, but his coding riles up with a click of his power core to decipher the signal source.

Oh.

Of course, X notes the time that lights up behind his eyes, a dismal reality of being well past noon, so he has not only missed morning check in, but also his scheduled training session with his best friend who is undoubtedly make him pay tenfold for his ‘lack of diligence.’

Zero’s signal ID radiates incessantly while attempting to rouse X to respond, and it is with a crack of one verdant eye that he finds his bedmate wrapped entirely around him. Their limbs are entangled in some possessive masterpiece of a cooled over afterglow that the two simply refused to slip away from, too enamored with their previous acts of…

The signal finally dies, and X mulls over what he wants to call it while his cheek nestles closer along the warmth of her bare skin. In her sleep, Morrigan grumbles, but the sound is so light and drifting that he hardly worries over waking her. One more sound, a gentle whisper of his name, and her arms and wings draw him even closer, leaving not one inch of space between them.

Once she fully settles again, he cannot help the tiny smile that pulls his lips into a dipping moon, feeling as though he has found a secret little garden to call his own while the summer breeze and cotton clouds greet him as though he were lost and then found. If there ever were a place he could call _home_ , perhaps, X reckons, it is not a place, not a location on his GPS, not even coordinates on a map. Rather, home is here, waking up with the golden midmorning with someone that he… loves.

He loves her, and he _does_ , help him, he does so irrevocably in spite of all the damned worrying he has committed when her name and her essence smeared along him, coloring him in every way she delights. He longs to be hers, and frets that he could never be singularly possessed by a wild woman of leather and sex. He begs to be, would crow and would plead in some desperate cry to be so, yet…

Yet, a tremble rolls through his joints as he recalls her lusting gaze bright and adoring just the same as he recalls how her fingers dipped and touched along every inch she could explore as though X was not made for the world, but rather, built just for _her._

X wants to linger there, not as an android, not as a hunter, not as some irreplaceable hero that the people have placed on their ivory pillar— he just wants to lay there in her arms, cradled to her like a lumpy, too hard pillow and just be whatever she wants. He could crawl into her veins, exist there instead, and be so utterly content. Wars would pass, as too would time, and he be held hostage of his own derision to just be within her always.

And, the idea chills his warming processors with a tinge of fear, for love and rest sound like a harmonious duet that he could sing and sing in tune with her, but if she did not love him even half of how he loved her, he worried that their romance— if it could even be labeled as such— would sour, turning bitter on his tongue as dust coils into the cracks between their twined fingers.

Still, the android never has another chance to consider then as Morrigan struggles with the ever so hated hand of waking up, lashes fluttering as her eyes catch sight of his before a drunken grin pretties her face.

Like she needs the aid, an absolute precipice of beauty that would tense near anyone into arousal, but since he does not function so, he takes pride that her beauty is what he can truly behold with no silly strings attached.

For a moment, she seems to battle the desire to sleep the day away, but then Morrigan leans closer with a gentle sigh.

“Birdie…” and that is all she needs to whisper between them before her lips kiss his forehead and he nearly would weep at how dear she is with him, “ _sleep_ …”

“Of course, Morri.”

So, X does so at her command, clicking off his programs one by one while the veil of sleep enfolds his— he says it to himself like a budding youth feeling the bloom in their chest— lover back into the comfort of silk sheets and lazy naps. The signal calls again, Zero presumably, but he kindly rejects with a simple message, ensuring his safety and that he would deal with reality much later.

He sleeps— possibly dreams— but cares less so if he does or does not. His love, tenderly bitten, craves only to lock him ball and chain to a queen of dancing haunts of nighttime schemes, and he prays she drags back down into her embrace to cradle him in the dark sanctimony of her bed.


End file.
